|Sing a song of white mule, bottle full of rye;
All the whole creation now is going dry.
Russia lost her vodka, Germany her schnapps;
Soon there won't be any use in raising hops.
Brewer and distiller looking down their nose;
Lots of kids and women wearing better clothes;
Solons up in congress talking mighty strong
Of an anti-booze law, nation-wide-and-long.
Sentiment is changing everywhere you go;
Fellow full of jag juice hasn't any show;
Places in the old town where he used to drink
Do not want his quarter, cannot see him wink.
Factory and railroad advocate the can
As the proper token for the drinking man.
Spiritus frumenti, silo-soup and rum
Turn the handy genius to a useless bum.
Barleycorn, the monarch, soon will leave his throne,
Bootleg booze and jim-jams then will be unknown.
Sing a song of bug juice, make your biggest bluff;
Soon will eight and forty states be as dry as snuff.
Verdigris Valley Verse
(Coffeyville, Kansas: The Journal Press. 1917)